You Mix it Up

 6 August 2026

You Mix It Up

Life is  delightful, happy, 

the days full of love and future dreams,

but thats when you decide to,

Mix it up.

Without any warning you interfere,

unsettle the heart, displace the joy

stir up the quiet sea within, causing waves

 that batter and hurt.

Tumble about, slip further under,

 unable to breathe, where is the surface?

Or where is the land to rescue ?

Where to  rest?

Today a little respite, a stillness, 

a long intake of breath, 

and, for now,

some peace. 

 

Gillyngvase Beach

3rd August 2020

17th July 2020

Gyllyngvase Beach 

Runners pound by our window. It's 5.30 am. We breathe a sigh of relief, having  got through the night without being moved on.

Peter is eager to hide the evidence of our wild camp, and immediately puts the bed up, and takes down the curtain which hides the sleeping area from view. 

We set our chairs out under a small tree, the morning sunny and warm, the Bay beautiful,  the sea still and magical, giving a sense of the vastness of eternity.

Breakfast of porridge for Peter, granola for me followed by our half hour of prayer/meditation, is next. It's a special time for us, which we rarely omit as we tune in with the day, each other, ourselves and God. 

 Now we are full of joy and courage for whatever comes our way during the day.

The sea is out, exposing rocks, where we spot some small fish and talk to a mum collecting crabs with her young son and am reminded  of the many times we spent happy days on beaches with the children, regardless of the weather, swimming or scouring rock pools or searching for fossils. One thing for sure, you could never just be still.I miss those days sometimes. `We accompany the grandchildren now, but I'm not as able or active as I once was. 

Gyllyngvase beach is a short walk up the coast and the sun, even this early ( must be only about 9.30 am) is hot on us, reminding me, with the long stretch of sand too, of previous holidays around the Mediterranean.

The sound of children playing, seagulls squawking, young people laughing, you wouldn't think we're living in a pandemic.

Around midday we decide to find our campsite so we can set ourselves up for the next four nights. I look forward to not worrying about finding a convenient wild camping spot. 

We put the postcode in the sat nav and follow the instructions, coming off the main road, down country lanes, and finally into a small lane (a boreen) with grass down the middle and only the width of a car.

"This can't be right," I say as we continue winding round this lane, which is not a through road and only goes to the farm. 

There are cows in the field opposite the campsite, which is obviously another field for them when it's not holiday season. We see the farmhouse tucked away behind some trees before we see the tents and campers. Ah, that's where we go.

We pull in and notice a sign that tells us to ring this number, which we did. 

"Wait there , I'll be right with you," the lady says. 

We look around and it's then I notice the view. Wow! We are on a hill and I think, it's confirmed later, that what we are looking down at is Falmouth Bay. With the blue water,  the clear blue skies, birds singing and cows mooing in the background, I feel well blessed. 

The farmer  arrives in her  jeep like vehicle, wearing boots, her face rosy and weathered, her dark hair tied back. She takes our envelope with the money in and tells us we can park anywhere at all, except where there is electric hook up, as we've not paid for that. I am so thankful we have our solar panel, which provides all the electric we need, for the fridge, the lights, our phones. It's invaluable when we're wild camping especially. We talk about how everything has to be different at the moment keeping our distance from people and watching everything we do. She is careful to keep at least 2 metres away from us at all times and with the number of people she has to see I don't blame her.

She points out where the toilets are , then leaves us to it.

There is cow smell all around us. This is truly a working farm, the campsite just an extra bit of income. I love it though.

We take a good look round to see where we can put the camper and the awning to get the benefit of the wonderful  view. 

"Ah, that's it, put the door going that way round," I say as we get to grips with the canvas, trying to work out which way round we've got the awning.

"Perfect," I  stare down at the sea, imagining having coffee, reading, eating breakfast while enjoying such a glorious picture.

Unfortunately it was short lived as later that day we get six cars with their tents park in front of us. So disappointing. But hey, that's life. Oh well.

After a quick lunch, finishing off the bread and the feta cheese, we amble back down the lane. a mile or so,  to find a map the farmer told us about. I'm keen to walk from the campsite into Falmouth. After all it's only a couple of miles, well, three at most.  Of course, it never happens. 

We find the map but can't make head nor tail of it. A lady with a large lawnmower turns up and helps us work it out, saying, "have a good holiday" as we go on our way.

We carry on to the village, Budock water, which is about a mile along the windy road.  

There's a pub with customers sitting outside, the familiar sound of "normal" chatting and laughter, echoing through the street. Lovely to see. If there's somewhere to sit we'll stay,have a drink, but no, they are full. Nobody allowed inside yet.

We pass the village shop, two older ladies queue outside next to a sign that says "Only one person allowed in at a time. Sorry for the inconvenience." Where do the villagers do their catching up these days , I wonder.

A little way on we see a woman up a ladder on the outside of a building that looks to me like a church, but turns out to be a restaurant and the lady is putting  cutlery around a clock face. You'd have to see it.

It is a church building and still has many of the features - windows, choir loft etc, which the owner has converted beautifully. Peter wants to come here for dinner before we leave. We don't, not because I won't spend the money, which could easily be the case, but simply because I couldn't enjoy it with cold sores on my lips. So painful when I eat.

We chat with the owner who tells us how to get to Maenporth Beach by the backpaths. It gets my hopes up, but , as you know already we don't do it. 

Dinner for us this evening is a bean chilli using up any vegetables that are getting a bit tired. Delicious. 

When we've cleared up we sit with our glasses( plastic, of course)  of wine and watch he sun go down over the Bay. Red, orange, even purple, the colour of the sky this evening. 

We read in bed for a while , using our head torches.

 

You

7th July 2026

You

In your seventieth year you decided to learn,

the guitar.

Not with the idea of being the next

superstar.

No.

Rather, for pure enjoyment and your urge always 

to grow.

you undertook so many things just because you wanted

to know.

Getting involved in so many projects, thinking always of the 

next task.

Generous with family and friends alike, they only had 

to ask.

So much was fitted into your every 

day

Yet you were never too busy to find time to

pray.

Six hundred and sixty-four days have passed,

And ill love you always, right up to my last.

 

Your Birthday

 24th March

558

Another Day.

Without you.

Today is your birthday.

 You would have been seventy seven.

You promised we'd get old together, potter around,

help each other, love each other.

But, you left...

You went too early. 

I was not ready. Not ready.

I'm still,

Not ready.

No...

Yes, it might be, by some measure of time, quite long, 

this eighteen months and twelve days.

And, yes, it is...

However, I want you to know, that,

It's also like you've just left.

I still want to wake from sleep, and

feel you there, beside me .

I still want you to agree, or, not agree,

with all my musings,

to discuss, to make me see everything from,

a different, your, point of view.

I still want us to remember together,

all the many blessings that made up,

Our Life...

I loved that...

Sometimes, do you remember, we would be 

crying with joy as we pondered on

 God's goodness to us.

No, it's not easy, living without you 

beside me.

All those  "little" things didn't add up to,

very much in our day to day life,

But, it's those very ordinary things,

even the smallest irritations ,

that I miss the most, and,

would love to have back.

Am i being morbid? Maybe.

Should I just get on living without you?

Yes, surely.

And, I am, I am. I've got lots going on.

Yet, you aren't there, to share... 

Sometimes, that feels so heavy.

So very heavy...

Will I feel the same when your next

birthday comes around,

Another year from now? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soda Bread 2

                                Soda Bread 

An early summer light casts long, rectangular patterns

Into the small kitchen.

6  a. m.  Angelus Bells ring out from the cathedral.

Softly, she mutters the prayer, to herself, as,

she places two sods of turf onto burning briquettes,

in the range.

My grandmother remembers, fondly, how grandad and 

John Jo cut the turf, brought it home in the spring,

Turf, that will warm them through bitter winter months.

She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden,

farmhouse table, adds flour, buttermilk, soda, salt.

No weighing, no hesitating - instinctive, rythmic

Just as my grandmother draws those she loves,

close to her heart,

 with tender touch, she forms the soft, supple dough.

She throws it down, onto the floury table,

gently, she kneads - hands worn, knuckles gnarled.

I imagine her life - many hours, many days, many years,

fair weather, or foul.

 Work, from dawn to dusk . on the family farm.

Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.

 

My grandmother takes a knife, and cuts, ceremoniously,

into the round dough. 

If you're near, you'll hear , as she whispers,

"The cross of blessing"

Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,

she will slice it, spread it with butter, a lot of butter,

pile it high on plates.

Family and friends will gather, all united together in this,

timeless tradition:

Soda bread, strong tea, shared stories, stories stored

 in the  very walls of the cottage,

 talk, of what has been, what is, what will be.

There will be laughter , there will be crying,

there will be remembering.

My grandmother , with a tear, in her eye,

will look around, and smile.

All hearts will be full .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

             16 th March 2026

                               16 th March 2026

                   A June Morning in The Cottage                                            Soda  Bread                 

An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns                   into the small kitchen.

6 am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .

Softly , she  mutters the prayer, to herself, as she places                        two sods of turf onto the glowing briquettes in the range.

My grandmother remembers, with a smile how grandad                     and John Jo, cut the turf , brought it home from the bog                          in the spring, turf, that will last the family through                           bitter winter months.                      

 She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse               table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda,                                                   no weighing , no hesitating - rhythmic -  instinctive.                                

Just as my grandmother  draws those she loves                                        close to  her heart, with tender touch she forms the                             soft, supple  dough.                                                                                     She throws it down onto the floury  table,                                          Gently, she kneads, -  hands, worn, knuckles, gnarled.                               I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years,                         fair weather or fowl - work,  from dawn to dusk                                      on the family farm.                                                                                Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.                                                My grandmother takes a knife, and,  cuts ceremoniously,                      into the round dough.                                                                                      If you're  near you'll hear her whisper,  "the  cross of blessing."                                                                                                                                          Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,                      she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter,                              pile it high on plates,   family and friends will gather -                        all,  united together in this timeless tradition -  Soda bread,                   pots  of strong tea, shared stories- stories stored                                        in the very walls of the cottage,  talk of what has been, what is,                what will be There will be laughter,there will be crying,                    there will be remembering.

My grandmother will smile, with a tear in her eye.

               All hearts will be full. 

 

 

                                   

 

 

 

  

 

                                   

 

 

 

 

Soda Bread

            16 th March 2026

                   A June Morning in The Cottage                                            Soda  Bread                 

An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns                   into the small kitchen.

6 am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .

Softly , she  mutters the prayer, to herself, as she places                        two sods of turf onto the glowing briquettes in the range.

My grandmother remembers, with a smile how grandad                     and John Jo, cut the turf , brought it home from the bog                          in the spring, turf, that will last the family through                           bitter winter months.                      

 She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse               table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda,                                                   no weighing , no hesitating - rhythmic -  instinctive.                                

Just as my grandmother  draws those she loves                                        close to  her heart, with tender touch she forms the                             soft, supple  dough.                                                                                     She throws it down onto the floury  table,                                          Gently, she kneads, -  hands, worn, knuckles, gnarled.                               I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years,                         fair weather or fowl - work,  from dawn to dusk                                      on the family farm.                                                                                Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.                                                My grandmother takes a knife, and,  cuts ceremoniously,                      into the round dough.                                                                                      If you're  near you'll hear her whisper,  "the  cross of blessing."                                                                                                                                          Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,                      she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter,                              pile it high on plates,   family and friends will gather -                        all,  united together in this timeless tradition -  Soda bread,                   pots  of strong tea, shared stories- stories stored                                        in the very walls of the cottage,  talk of what has been, what is,                what will be There will be laughter,there will be crying,                    there will be remembering.

My grandmother will smile, with a tear in her eye.

               All hearts will be full. 

 

 

                                   

 

 

 

 

Workman

 10th October

Workman

It's 8th October. The doorbell rings. It's 8.05 am. Looking out of the window I spot a white van. 

"I was expecting you at  8.30," peeping through the half open door I, awkwardly, pull my dressing gown more closely around me.

"Yeh, I know, got off to an early this morning." 

"You can come in . I'll just..." I open the door a bit more.

"No worries," he starts walking backwards towards his van, "I'll just sit in the van and finish my coffee. Pop out and let me know when you're ready."

"Ok." I run upstairs, have a quick wash, grab my jeans and jumper I threw on the chair the previous night, brush my hair and hurry back down. The getting "ready process" took less than three minutes.

By 8.20 he and I are in conversation. I tell him, that I'm glad I didn't have to wait for him, that I'm happy he turned up  early. I tell him I'm grateful I didn't have to wait for hours, stewing and unable to settle to do anything, like the last time. I tell him, I'm really not keen on having workmen come to the house, especially since my husband isn't here anymore.

"What happened to your husband," ha asks, his attention focused on the thermostat in his hand. He's here to replace the broken thermostat. 

"He died a year ago.  I miss him terribly, particularly for sorting out all these sorts of problems. And I'm actually quite nervous of having workmen coming to the house" 

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry," he turns towards me. His words, which I've heard, repeatedly, during the last year, carry a soft, genuine kindness in them, which throws me a little.

"Thank you," I rub the tears from my eyes. "I'm finding things really difficult. He used to deal with all these issues."

 "Who plays the guitar, is it you?" he nods over to the wall where two guitars hang. I wonder if he's trying to change the subject.  Again he responds gently and  I end  up telling him how hubby died at the end of our Pilgrimage and what a blessing it was. 

"Of course, it was traumatic too," I add. "I mean, I had to get him repatriated and everything." I start to think I'm telling him too much. Surely he doesn't want to hear all my woes, I think. 

But he asks more questions. About the Pilgrimage, about hubby's health,  about how long we were married. I rattle on, everything pours out. I tell him what a wonderful man Peter was. His questions  draw me into sharing some details of our Faith, which, of course, was so important to hubby. 

Afterwards, the conversation shifts slightly and, the plumber, who's  been in the house for less than twenty minutes starts saying he wants  to get a bible. He says he wants to find out what Christianity is all about.  We have a rather beautiful discussion about Jesus and prayer. If I had a spare bible on my shelf I'd give it to him. I tell  him to talk to Jesus as a friend, that He is always there for him. He says  he will  and he keeps thanking  me as we say goodbye at the door. 

"You know, you're amazing," he stops in the driveway and looks back at me, "I'd expect you to be very sad and actually, you're so joyful. And all those years you were married, and everything. Amazing." He walks towards the van, but turns around again.

"And," he says, "you're not pushy, are you? You have a strong faith, but you don't push it on others." He is so genuine.

"You don't think so?" I think I've been a bit too open.

"No, it's more that you're, sort of, helpful." 

"Ahh, thanks."

We give each other a wave and off he goes.

I don't know what, if anything, will come from  that encounter. However , I do think the Holy Spirit is  working and maybe , Peter is too. 

Obviously, I shall pray for Michael, the plumber.  I'm not likely ever to meet him again. Yet that doesn't matter.  

comments about memoir

 "There is Plenty to recommend about this book.... It is deftly written, with an eventful and entertaining life story and has pace and vitality...                                                                    I think Marian's storytelling is, by far, the strength of her writing. She writes effortlessly, with believable dialogue and with an eye for good storytelling. The reader is drawn into the story immediately with the account of the death of her parents... The story is both lively and interesting throughout, and maintains the readers  interest from start to finish."  ( Cliff Cobb)(Part of a much longer piece!)

"Finished! A really good read and I didn't want to put it down.  I completely "got" the characters,  you're so clever!   You took such a risk, opening your heart as you did. Your courage has me in absolute awe. I hope you have already started the next book...                   Anyway, thank you for writing such a beautiful and heartfelt memoir.                                    It will remain with me for a long, long time." (Michelle Collin)

A friend says 

"It is very much your voice: direct, personal, honest. And the  thread that runs throughout is your and Peter's love for each other. God knew that your vocation was to marriage - with all the sacrifices that entails - not to a nunnery. It wasn't blind chance that brought you together; it was the providence of God... " (Francis Philips)

"...what an opening chapter. Emotional and beautifully told 💓😭 in pieces." (Kate Walker)

"...the first chapter has me in floods of tears! Do I dare continue? 😟" (Joanna Teixeira) Rhetorical question, obviously.

"Thoroughly enjoyed reading the fabulous Marian Green's recently published memoir. It was as though she was with me, on my train journey, telling me her story." (Claire Upton) 

"Had to contact you to say I started reading your book and love it." (Maddie)

"Dear Marian,                                                                                                                         just started   reading your book last night and was   in floods of tears at the picture you painted of your parents' deaths.

You are very good at making the scenes come alive by describing the little details. For example, the purple blanket that you and Peter first bought in London which you couldn't bear to get rid of. 

You seemed such a warm and plucky person full of determination and full of fear simultaneously. I can relate to that!. The early times in Northampton when you felt the darkness inside you before you found Faith. And Peter's steadfast love for you even when you annoyed him!

I am hooked by the story and find it very heartfelt ... I haven't finished the book yet  as I want to savour it for a bit longer. " ( Emily Jacobs )

      "Finished reading your memoir. I didn't want it to end . I was hooked from the beginning and wanted more..." (Karen Mcgown)

" Wow, what a lovely memoir. I definitely wanted to know more about your life. So interesting." (F)

And  many people ( well, probably over  ten ) have said  they passed it on to others, their family member, or friend.   

Someone came up to me and said she'd been reading my memoir - her friend gave it to her and told her it was brilliant.

Another person told me , "your memoir is doing the rounds of all my friends. I'm sure they'll love it. " (Wendy Blanchet)

Blessings

 6th Oct 2025

Blessings

It is true that I have been extremely sad for weeks, with it  becoming more and more difficult to find any joy in my days.

Today, though I'm aware it might be a temporary relief, I am feeling slightly better. I will just enjoy this day and be thankful. 

Early this morning, at 7am, my friend and I took a walk along the coast. Part of me didn't want to bother. Didn't really want to bother with anything. However, when I looked out of the window I thought, "you know, you might as well go. It's not raining. It'll do you good." So, I went, and was very happy that I did. It turned out it was a good way to  distract me from myself and the overwhelming sadness. Even if it's only for a little while. 

 

Interestingly, saying yes at the start of the day led to more positive decisions. Making a doctors appointment  I was putting off, and being seen within an hour,  became easy, and it ticked another box of something needing to be done.  Initially, I wasn't too happy about the time of the appointment as it meant I  missed Mass at my Parish Church, and I particularly wanted to get to Mass today , it being the anniversary of the canonisation of St Josemaria.  

However, yet again, saying yes proved fruitful. I decided to go into Canterbury on the bus to another Church. It worked out better than I could have hoped.  I was early enough to join in praying part of the rosary of the day with the parishioners who were there.  On the bus coming home, again , I was so thankful for the way the day was turning out.

But that is not the end.

Getting off the bus a couple of stops before my stop, I  walked to the cemetery to spend some time sitting at the grave of my husband. There, I met a lovely lady who was also there visiting her husbands grave. And what joy to share our experiences of widowhood, her being a year ahead of me  in the process.  After nearly an hour chatting and telling stories, I was home holding my head high and my spirit lifted. I doubt she knew how much she gave me today. I am so grateful for meeting her. I hope I meet her again. 

Thank you , Father God.